


you'd be every word

by starsaregoingout (abovetheruins)



Category: Bright (2017), Hellboy (Movies), The Evil Within (Video Game), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble Collection, Other, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-04-01
Packaged: 2019-03-21 11:52:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 11,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13740309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abovetheruins/pseuds/starsaregoingout
Summary: Various reader-insert drabbles based on requests taken from tumblr. Will span across multiple fandoms. Warnings (if applicable) included in notes. Reader is gender neutral unless stated otherwise.





	1. prince nuada/reader, "quit it, or i'll bite."

You grunt as you hit the ground, pain blossoming through your back and shoulders. Your practice sword clatters to the floor beside your head, and you peer through watery eyes at the blunted end of another sword resting inches from your nose.

“Yield,” Nuada demands, golden eyes hard and authoritative. You breathe out harshly through your mouth and lower your head in submission; Nuada draws his sword away and ushers you forward with a single command: “Again.”

You rise to your feet on shaking legs, grabbing for your sword and settling into the fighting stance Nuada had shown you. Your heartbeat pounds in your ears, the whole of your body drained of energy, sore and exhausted. You’ve lost track of how much time you’ve spent here - the hours have blurred, swallowed in a haze of straining muscles, aching limbs, and winded gasps. You’ve yet to land a single hit on Nuada; hell, you haven’t even come close. He avoids your attacks as easily as taking a breath, and knocks you to the ground with enough force to leave you stunned. 

You’re fading fast. You blink the sweat from your eyes and dart forward, a bubble of heat and anger in your chest as Nuada sidesteps your clumsy approach and cracks the blunted tip of his sword across your shoulders. You clench your lip between your teeth to muffle your yelp of pain, twisting on your ankle and bringing your sword down in a last desperate bid to land a blow on your opponent. Nuada knocks it from your grip with a flick of his wrist, and before it even hits the ground you’re on your back once more, heaving in a mix of mortification and anger, your disappointment a heavy weight in your chest. 

“Yield,” Nuada commands, his voice deep and even. No signs of exertion mar his frame - no sweat, no loss of breath. He remains completely unaffected by your bout, while you lay in a panting, exhausted heap at his feet. You hate how weak you feel.

You try to rise, inordinately satisfied by the flash of anger in his eyes. You don’t make it far. Nuada’s knees lock around your hips, his weight settling over you and pressing you down into the floor. His sword lays across your neck. You grit your teeth, hands curling into fists as he stares expectantly down at you. Expecting you to  _submit_. You won’t, not again, and your resolve hardens as you attempt to push yourself from the floor once more. 

His sword clatters by your ear as Nuada reaches for your hands, fingers curling around yours and pushing them to the ground by your head. His grip is like iron, unrelenting, and you bristle in a cold rage. Trapped. Helpless. Your stomach curdles. Just another weak human.

You bunch your shoulders and begin to struggle, refusing to give in, to accept defeat, not until Nuada’s fingers tighten around yours, knees digging into your hips. Not until he leans over you, pale hair tickling your cheeks, and promises, “Yield, or I’ll bite.”

You freeze. Nuada stares unflinchingly down at you, his mouth hovering a scant distance from the vulnerable skin of your throat. You don’t doubt his words, nor do you doubt how much your defiance will cost you should you continue your fruitless struggles. 

Yet it isn’t fear that floods your veins. You flush, your skin burning beneath the weight of his gaze. Suddenly all you desire is to put as much space between the two of you as you can, to ignore the wayward thoughts forming in your head, and to hope that Nuada doesn’t read them in your face. 

So you swallow hard, baring your throat in a sign of supplication, and obey his command. You yield. 


	2. stefano valentini/reader, "are you drunk? oh my god, you're drunk."

You find the bottle underneath the bed. You have no idea whose house you’re holed up in; it had been empty when you’d stumbled inside, and had doors you could lock, so that was all you’d really cared about. You’re huddled in the corner between the bed and the wall, the window and door barred with a heavy bookcase and a dresser respectively. You’d searched underneath the bed for anything you could protect yourself with and spotted the bottle. Heavy, filled with an amber liquid, the label scratched and faded. At first you think to use it as a weapon - you can hear the ragged groans and shambling footsteps of those  _things_  outside, and occasionally the manic laughter of that monstrosity - but then you take stock of your surroundings, of your lack of resources and the hoard of creatures standing between you and freedom, and you think  _Fuck it_.

You work the cap free, letting it fall to the floor with a muted thump as you bring the bottle to your lips. The stench of strong liquor hits your nose seconds before you take your first sip, but you soldier on, undeterred. The alcohol burns as it works its way down your throat - you have to press your hand to your mouth to muffle your coughs, your eyes watering at the sour tang of the drink. You allow yourself a moment to recover before a distant cackle and the whir of a saw echoes from outside, and you hurriedly take another sip, anything to distract you from what awaits you beyond these walls. 

You wonder if the photographer is close by. Stefano. That saw-wielding creature is one of his creations, isn’t it? Maybe he sent it to look for you.

You shiver. You’ve managed to hide from him until now, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t know exactly where you are. You’d seen the way he moved, the powers he had. The way he’d sliced into those men in uniform, leaving them in perpetual stasis with a click of his camera. 

Would he do the same to you? Carve into you with that knife of his, and then trap you in one of those horrible boxes, reliving the moment over and over again? 

You wonder if you’d prefer that to  _this_  - the uncertainty, the all consuming  _fear_ , the knowledge that one of those creatures could find you at any moment and tear you limb from limb.

Tears fill your eyes as you take another drink. The alcohol goes down easier now, leaving your throat and belly pleasantly warm rather than hollow and aching. You can’t remember the last time you actually ate anything. You can’t remember much at all, really, before Union went to hell. 

Maybe no one will find you. Maybe you’ll just waste away in here, tucked away from the prying eyes of monsters and psychopaths. The thought comforts you, strangely enough, and you take another swig from the quickly draining bottle as you settle against the wall. 

You’re sleepy and warm when you hear the  _pop_  of displaced air by the door. You raise tired eyes to the man standing a few feet away, your gaze trailing from his polished loafers to his dark hair, swept artfully over his brow.  

“There you are,” you murmur, mush-mouthed. You point at him. “Knew you were lookin’ for me.”

If your brain wasn’t steeped in cheap alcohol you might have been amused at the look on his face, his lips tilted in an incredulous smile as he takes a step toward you. 

“And there  _you_  are,” he murmurs, his voice deep and strangely soothing to your ears. It’s better than the manic laughter and hungry groans you’d been subjected to for so long, at least. “It seems our game of cat and mouse has finally come to an end.”

You snort, your head thumping against the wall. You see Stefano’s brows furrow in confusion and wave a hand dismissively in his direction. “A game rigged in your favor,” you mumble, your words slurring a little. “I don’t - don’t have freaky camera powers or, or, groan-y monsters at my beck and call. A fucking cheater, ’s what you are.”

Silence reigns from the photographer for a few long moments. You wait for some response, some witty retort designed to make you feel like a simpleton, but seeing as none seems to be forthcoming, you shrug and take another swig from your bottle, brows furrowing as liquid sloshes at the bottom. Damn, almost out.

The click of heels on hardwood alerts you to Stefano’s presence; his loafers draw to a halt by the foot of the bed, and you lazily turn your head up to meet his gaze. He looks absolutely flabbergasted. “… Are you drunk?” he asks, his eye narrowing as he takes in your appearance. It’s not a pretty sight, you bet. You’re coated in sweat and grime from your frantic dash across town, and stinking of drink besides. 

“Sure hope so,” you chirp, holding your bottle aloft in a sloppy salute before drawing it back to your lips. 

“ _Dio mio_ ,” Stefano mutters, taking another step closer. “You  _are_  drunk.” He reaches for your nearly empty liquor, and though you fight against his hold, he has far more control of his extremities than you do. You grumble as he brings the lip of the bottle to his nose, and then roll your eyes as he sniffs delicately at the contents. His lips twist in displeasure at the scent. “And on this  _swill_? Surely you have better taste than that.”

You shoot him a disgruntled look. “S'ry I didn’t have any - ” You wave your hand vaguely in his direction. “Whatever it is you drink. I was perfectly con.. con… I was  _happy_  with what I had, so. Gimme.” You make grabby hands at the bottle.

Stefano eyes you incredulously. “I think not.” He tosses the bottle on the bed; you’re two seconds away from crawling up there to get it when he reaches for  _you_. You make a token protest, your fear having long since been replaced by deep-seated annoyance, but his arm wraps around your shoulder, tucking you against his side, and you give up with a huff. “You, my dear, are in desperate need of some refinement,” he says loftily, lips titled in a roguish smirk. “It’s the least I can do before we conclude our game.”

You open your mouth - whether to tell him exactly what you think of that plan or to tell him to  _fuck right off, thanks_  is undetermined - but you’re distracted by the gleam of blue light beneath the dark strands of his hair. “Hold on tight, cara,” he murmurs, and with a lurch the ramshackle room disappears.  


	3. kandomere/reader, "am i scaring you?"

You’re a nervous wreck as Kandomere walks you to your door. Granted, you’d been a nervous wreck all night - you’d lost count of how many times you’d had to wipe your clammy palms down on your dinner napkin, or how often Kandomere had had to repeat himself during the course of your conversation. You’re grateful he hadn’t gotten annoyed with you; rather, he had given you a patient (and patently amused) look each time it happened, calmly repeating himself and never once asking what had you so distracted in the first place.

He probably knew. Your last date had ended with you pressed against your front door, your fingers buried in long blue strands and Kandomere’s mouth hot and insistent against your own. You flush as you remember the sounds you’d made - breathy gasps and hushed whimpers as his sharp teeth had sunk into your bottom lip and his hands had curled around your hips. You’d lost track of everything, including where you were. It wasn’t until one of your neighbors down the hall had opened their door that you’d come back to yourself, your face flaming as you’d realized how disheveled you were, your lips kiss-swollen and your breathing labored. Kandomere had been no better, and you’d melted at the sight of him, how dark his eyes had grown, how hungry he’d looked, so far removed from the stoic, poised elf you were used to that you’d been stricken speechless. 

You’d wanted to invite him in, to finally take that plunge, but your nerves had gotten the better of you. Not tonight, though. No, you were determined that - clammy palms be damned! - you were going to get your boyfriend into your apartment, and possibly  _out of_  those expensive clothes. Though how you plan to do that when your mind keeps short-circuiting just at the mental image, you have no clue.

Kandomere’s palm squeezes yours, drawing your attention back to the present, and you squeeze back, enjoying the simple warmth of his skin against yours. Your spine uncurls from its rigid line at the touch, some of the tension bleeding out of you, and you marvel at how one elf can be the cause and the cure for so much stress. And then you scold yourself for feeling stressed in the first place. You remember how it felt to have the length of him pressed against you after your last date, the way heat had flooded your veins as he’d kissed you. How wanted you’d felt. Treasured. You reach for that feeling, and as you arrive at your door, you find it’s easy to tug at his hand, your voice soft and steady as you ask, “Do you want to come in?”

His striking eyes go dark, and your heart begins to pound as his thumb strokes over the ridge of your knuckles. “Are you sure?” he asks, keeping his ground until you nod, and then following you silently inside.

You don’t get far. You find yourself pressed against the door moments after it closes behind you, once again treated to the maddening sensation of Kandomere’s body tucked against yours, his hands low around your hips. Your eyes are drawn to his lips, slightly parted and hovering inches from your own. You can see the sharp points of his teeth, and your belly goes tight and hot as you remember the pleasant sting of them sinking into your bottom lip. You shiver.  

“Am I scaring you?” His voice rasps against your lips, hoarse with want. With  _restraint_. A shudder wracks your frame as he moves closer, as close as you can possibly be, pressed together chest to belly to hips. The warmth of him, his scent, his proximity is overwhelming, but you’re not afraid. You’re aching, and wanting, and  _hungry_ , but not afraid.

You don’t need words to tell Kandomere any of that, however; all it takes is a gentle tug and your mouth falling open beneath his, and by that point no more words are necessary. 


	4. kandomere/reader, "don't touch me." & "come here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w: female!reader, sexual content

Kandomere presses your hands to the bed, keeping them tucked against your sides. “Keep them there. Don’t touch me. Don’t touch yourself.” Icy eyes peer down at you, soft hair slipping over his shoulder and tickling your cheek. “Understand?”

You nod, your heart in your throat as Kandomere settles down beside you, his chest and belly warm against your side. You clench your fingers in the bedsheet and swallow hard as you drink him in. Tie and vest discarded, dress shirt unbuttoned, throat bare. Your fingers itch to touch him, to feel the warmth of his skin beneath yours. You haven’t seen him in weeks - he’s been wrapped up in a case, and your only contact has been restricted to late night phone calls and scattered texts. It’s a shock to your system to even be in the same room now, to smell his cologne and reacquaint your eyes with all the little details you’ve missed so dearly: his piercing eyes, those full lips, the fall of his hair over his shoulders. The restless itch to touch him demands to be slaked; to be so close - close enough to feel the heat of his body - and be denied sharpens your longing to a desperate edge. 

“You missed me.” It isn’t a question but you nod anyway, your eyes affixed to his lips. Hearing his voice had helped, but you’d spent many a night wrapped in these sheets wishing he were there, missing the simple pleasure of his warmth beside you. “You missed this.”

Your breath hitches as his hand curves over your hip, resting low on your belly, which goes tight and hot as if in answer. You nod again, your tongue flicking out to lick dry lips. Kandomere’s eyes track the movement before resting on yours; it’s a struggle to hold his gaze - it always is, but even more so when you’re caught in the throes of arousal like this. You feel flayed open beneath that icy blue, exposed and vulnerable in a way that scares you and thrills you in equal measure. 

“I can smell you,” he murmurs, so bluntly you barely have the chance to feel embarrassed. “Your arousal. As soon as I walked in. It’s strongest here.” His head tilts against the pillow, a lock of blue hair slipping over his cheek. “How often did you touch yourself?”

Heat fills your cheeks. You duck your head, mumbling, “I don’t know,” around a lump in your throat. You hadn’t been able to help yourself; wrapped in sheets that still carried Kandomere’s scent, his voice fresh in your ears after one of your calls, you had slipped your hand beneath the band of your sleep shorts and curled your fingers within wet, aching heat, memories of the last time you were alone together providing all of the fuel you needed to reach a breathless completion.

“Did you think of this?” His hand follows the same path your own had traced more nights than you can count, over your belly and under your clothes. His fingers drift through damp curls until they rest against your slit, not pushing aside but tracing slowly along your lips, spreading slickness along your skin and his. 

You can barely speak past the rush of want that fills your belly, can only nod desperately, wishing you could wrap your fingers around his and guide them deeper inside. 

“Look at me.” You whimper at the low command. Kandomere’s voice has grown deeper, gritty with desire, though it hasn’t lost its authoritative edge. You don’t even consider disobeying.

You force your eyes to meet his, though they long to close as you surrender to the sensations he’s wringing out of you. As soon as your gazes catch two fingers sink within your folds, aided by your copious slick, and you keen through gritted teeth at the surge of pleasure sparking up your spine. For the first time in weeks you feel anchored,  _full_ , and your hips lift off the bed as you chase that feeling. 

As slow and teasing as his touches had been before, Kandomere wastes no time now - his fingers slip free of your heat only to immediately sink back inside, over and over until you’re whimpering with each breath. It’s a constant struggle to keep your eyes open as pleasure spirals through your belly and groin, and Kandomere’s unwavering gaze, fixed on you with an intensity that makes your pulse race, only serves to hasten your release. Dark and gleaming, his eyes are focused wholly on you, as if he were enraptured by the sight of you, by the flush of your skin and your parted lips, by your heaving chest and rolling hips, by the movement of his hand beneath your shorts and the slick, sucking sounds of his fingers buried within your cunt. 

He leans toward you as his thrusts pick up speed, tucking his brow against yours, and your breath hitches on a sob. He’s so  _close_ , his skin cool against yours, breath fanning over your lips, and you’re lost in that gaze, drowning in those brilliant blue eyes. 

“You can touch me,” he rasps, “but only if you cum. Can you do that?”

You nod desperately, tears of exertion brimming in your eyes. You’re overwhelmed by his voice and his heat and his touch, the scent of his cologne and sex thick in the air, and it only takes a whispered command for the pressure building in your body to finally burst. “Cum for me,” he urges you, his voice soft and hoarse, and you come apart with a jerk of your hips and a strangled sob of his name.

You reach blindly for him even as your body writhes beneath the onslaught of pleasure, your orgasm cresting over you like a goddamn wave. “ _Come here_ ,” you breathe, eyes wet and arms reaching, wrapping around his shoulders and pulling him to you. Your mouths meet in a heated tangle, lips and tongues and sharp, breathless gasps as he settles over you, pressing you down into the rumbled sheets. You pull at his shirt, fingers trembling with barely leashed restraint as you feel the press and give of his skin, smooth and warm beneath your hands. 

You’ll spend hours like this, locked together in heat and breath and skin, until you’ve reacquainted yourself with every curve, every bump of bone and line of muscle, every low, pleasured hum and hungry groan. Until you forget what it felt like to miss him at all.   


	5. prince nuada/reader, body worship & praise kink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w: sexual content

The Underground is a cold, damp place. Moisture clings to the walls, fills the passageways with frigid air that chills your skin. It’s worse when it rains, or snows. The cold seeps into your bones then, makes it nearly impossible for you to retain warmth. You’re not sure how Nuada can stand it, let alone shed his layers and train in it, feet and chest bare as he cycles through complicated katas. Maybe he’s immune, you think faintly, your eyes tracing along what seems like miles of alabaster skin. Smooth, save for the slight ridges of scar tissue. No gooseflesh prickling along his arms, no shivers wracking his frame. No sign that the chill in the air is affecting him at all.

Not like you. 

_You_  shiver, and amber eyes track the movement with single-minded focus. Even after months of being with him you’ve yet to grow used to the intensity of Nuada’s gaze, and you turn your head to escape it, breathing hard through your nose as pale fingers drift slowly along your sides. 

Everything about his exploration of you has been slow. Pressing you down into his nest of bedding, stripping you of each layer of clothing, slipping unhindered between your legs - all done with unhurried, methodical movements, each touch designed to leave you trembling, unfulfilled. His hands sweep feather-light over your chest, your belly, your thighs, his skin barely grazing yours. You squirm beneath him, desperation rising like a tide to tear you asunder, yet still he does not relent. 

“Nuada,” you plead, eyes closing as your hips rise helplessly from the blankets. His fingers curl around your thighs, pushing you back down - it’s the first firm touch he’s bestowed on you all night, and you whimper at the surge of want that pulses through you. 

“So responsive,” he murmurs, his voice smooth and deep. Curious. As though you were a creature to be studied and understood - each gesture, each twitch or shudder cataloged. Every inch explored. “It takes so very little. Just a touch -  ” His hands dip beneath you, gripping your ass and pulling you against him, and you give a strangled shout that echoes off the dark, damp walls. “ - and you are undone.”

You nod desperately, fingers twining within soft, plush fabric and gripping the sheets like a lifeline as Nuada leans over you. Pale hair falls over his shoulders, soft strands brushing teasingly along your chest and collarbone, and you writhe beneath the ticklish touch. Arousal pools in your gut as your groins touch, though Nuada’s firm grip on your buttocks allows you no freedom to deepen your contact. You huff out a breath, frustration simmering in your veins as the elf prince makes no move to touch you further. He isn’t unaffected by your intimacy; you can feel that much with his bare sex tucked against yours, but while you’re restless with longing he seems perfectly content to draw things out. To linger. You don’t know how much more you can take.

Neither, it seems, does Nuada. “Your patience wears thin, does it not?” You gasp as he moves, a single, unhurried roll of his hips that drags his sex against yours. Your head falls back at the electric sensation, baring your throat to his gaze, and you whimper as dark lips press against your fluttering pulse. “Yet you can withstand. Endure.” Another roll of hips and you whine, reaching for Nuada’s shoulders. Needing an anchor to keep you afloat. “Such a diligent pupil you are. Surely this is not so difficult a task.” His fingers knead into your skin, drifting from your ass to curve around your lower thighs. “Show me,” he murmurs, coaxing your legs to wrap around his waist, lips moving against your throat. “Show me you can endure.“ 

You draw in a ragged breath. His words do little to stem the flood of arousal rushing through your blood; if anything they make your body burn hotter, your breath run faster. He’s praising you and testing you in equal measure, and his words have the desired effect: you’re desperate to prove yourself. To see the spark of satisfaction in his eyes when you accomplish the goal he’s set for you. To see his  _pride_.

So you fight to control your rising need, and you do as Nuada has tasked you. You do it even as he slips inside you and fills you with slow, aching heat. You endure. 


	6. nick jakoby/reader, "i'm fucking stuck!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> w: sexual content

“ _Niiiiick_ ,” you whine, head tossed back and legs clenching tightly around your lover’s waist as you’re driven closer and closer to orgasm. Nick gasps your name against the arch of your throat, his voice sex-hoarse and wrecked as he nears his own climax, and you pull in vain at your bonds, the handcuffs rattling as they pull against the headboard. It kills you that you can’t touch him, but that had been the point of this little exercise, hadn’t it? 

Nick’s hands wrap firmly around your thighs, lifting your hips off the bed and deepening the angle of his thrusts, and you  _keen_ , “There! Nick, right there! I’m gonna cum, I - ” You break off with a strangled sob, digging your heels into the swell of his buttocks as your orgasm crashes through you. Dimly you hear Nick’s own garbled shout of completion and tighten your legs around his waist as you feel the gush of his release inside you. 

You slump against the bed in exhausted relief as the aftershocks tremble through you, lips curled into a happy, sated smile. You’re still smiling as Nick leans up to kiss you; it stretches to a grin when he pulls back and gives you a look of utter awe.

“That was - ” he starts, his words breathy and a little stunned. “That was -  _wow_.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment,” you laugh, wiggling your toes against his backside. You feel sore and used and in need of a bath, but you’ve never been happier. Although… You pull at your bonds. “Nick? Could you - ?” You rattle the cuffs around your wrists, giving him a soft look full of gentle teasing. “I wanna touch you.”

Affection swells in your chest as Nick blushes, startled into action by the reminder that you’re still bound. “Oh! Shit, yeah, hold on… ”

He gently eases out of you, his hands stroking along your thighs as he lowers your legs to the bed. You both flush as his cum drips free of you, your thighs wet with your own release and his. You have to prod his thigh with your foot after a moment, though; he’s taken to staring at you and not doing much else.

“Right!” he blurts, leaning over you and reaching toward the bedside table.“Right, the key. Sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry for, sweetheart,” you chirp, grinning as his ears wiggle. You were locked together just a moment ago but it’s only now that he becomes flustered. Adorable.

You wait patiently while he gropes for the key. And then you wait some more. And some more.

“Uh, Nick?” you ask, turning your head to watch as his fingers scour the bedside table, the drawers, and even the floor, his belly flush against yours as he leans over the edge of the bed to search the carpet. His shoulders have drawn up a bit, tension leaking into his frame. “Honey… ?”

“Um.” He raises himself back up from the floor, though he can’t seem to meet your eyes. “I can’t find it.”

You give him a look. “…. are you saying I’m fucking stuck, Nick?“ 

"No, no,” he hurries to assure you, before climbing over you and dropping to the floor. “Just. Hold tight. I’ll find it. It’s fine, don’t worry.” He bends down to search under the bed, his voice muffled but no less confident. “It probably just fell when we were - busy. I’m sure it’s here.”

You open your mouth to say… something. Honestly, you’re not even sure what; you’re still trying to process the fact that you’re trapped in bed with your hands cuffed and your skin turning tacky with dried cum, but then you glance at Nick - or, more precisely, Nick’s bare ass, waving in the air as he gropes beneath the bed, and the floodgates just kind of… open?

You fall back against the bed as giggles wrack your frame, half in disbelief and half in amusement that this is your life and you wouldn’t trade it for anything in the world. You’re still laughing when Nick pops up from beneath the bed ten minutes later, the tiny key held triumphantly between his fingers. 


	7. thranduil/reader, riding his elk

You run your hand over the elf’s velvety muzzle, smiling as he nudges his nose against your palm. He’s a magnificent creature, and a massive one at that. His size could be a little intimidating, the rack of his antlers spanning the length of your body and your head barely reaching his shoulders, but he had always been gentle with you. You felt no fear in his presence. 

Nor in the presence of his master. Slender fingers nudge against your own as Thranduil strokes along the beast’s soft nose, and you redirect your smile to him. The slight curl of his lips, small but content, warms your heart; yet another magnificent creature, your elf King. As striking as the mount he rides into battle, and just as intimidating.  _Though just as gentle, too_ , you think fondly, watching pale fingers drift through auburn fur. 

“He has grown fond of you,” he speaks, his voice a low, soothing rasp against your ears.    

“I’m glad,” you say, a soft laugh escaping as the elk huffs and presses his nose harder against your palm. 

“Do you wish to ride him?”

You eyes widen at the offer. You had often made such a request of the King but always been denied. “Yes! Yes, my Lord. Very much so.”

Thranduil’s lips twitch at your enthusiasm, his hand curling around your shoulder. “Come,” he says, leading you around to the elk’s side. A murmured command in Elvish has the beast kneeling gracefully before you, antlers sweeping the ground, and your heart races as you reach for a furred shoulder. Then it races for an entirely different reason as slim, powerful hands wrap around your hips, lifting you up and onto the elk’s back as though it requires no effort at all. 

You settle less than gracefully with your fingers clenched in soft, brown fur, your cheeks and nose flushed red at the lingering warmth left behind by the elf King’s grip. You don’t need to glance at his face to know his lips have settled into a charming smirk, yet you do so anyway, Thranduil’s pleased, knowing look doing little to curb the rapid thrum of your pulse. 

The brush of his hand across your leg only serves to quicken it. “Guide him,” he tells you, his words doing little to distract you from the sensation of his fingers curving over your knee. “Gentle pressure, and he will follow your command.”

You nod, taking a breath before gently urging the elk forward with a hint of pressure along his sides. You gasp as he takes a step, and then another, Thranduil’s hand falling away from your knee as the elk carries you across the lush grass. You’re nervous without the elf King by your side - it’s a long fall to the ground should you tumble from the elk’s back, after all - but within a few moments your caution turns to awe. The elk moves across the ground like water, his strides smooth and nearly soundless. You can feel his great muscles shifting beneath you, reminding you of what a powerful creature he is, and you feel humbled to be allowed upon his back. Humbled, and honored.

And more honored, still, by the soft, lingering smile gracing Thranduil’s handsome face as he watches you lead his mount around the glade.   


	8. thranduil/reader, "well, there is a first for everything."

Few humans have graced the vast kingdom of the Woodland Realm, of that you are certain. The elves whose paths you cross seem surprised each time to see you there, as though they had forgotten that you moved among them, and whispers at your back are as common as the curious glances you receive each time you leave the sanctuary of the King’s chambers.

There’s never an unkind word said against you, for which you are truly grateful. You are aware at all times of the ephemeral grace and beauty of those around you and how dearly you lack in both respects; to hear a disparaging remark from your hosts would be a blow you may not recover from. 

As it is, you feel only amusement from the few whispered conversations you do overhear. 

“A human in the Woodland Realm."  

"A human with the favor of the King, no less." 

"Well, there is a first for everything.”

You smile as you run your fingers through soft, silver strands. If they find your mere presence surprising, you can only imagine how the elves of the realm would react to such a sight as this - a human in the King’s bed, fingers buried in their Lord’s silken tresses.

“Does something amuse you?” Thranduil asks, voice low and even. 

You no longer question how the elf King can judge your mood even when he cannot see your face. “Only memories, my Lord,” you return, beginning to twine three chords of pale locks together, one over the over in the beginnings of a braid.

Thranduil’s shoulders shift minutely beneath your touch. You cannot see his face, but you can imagine the thoughtful look upon it. Thoughtful and yet knowing all at once, for there is little within his kingdom that could catch Thranduil unawares. “Pleasant memories, I take it?”

You smother another smile at the hint of steel in his voice. The elf King is fiercely protective, you’ve learned - of his kin and of his realm, yes, but also of those he considers  _his_. 

“Yes, my Lord,” you assure him, silver hair slipping through your fingers like spun silk. “I have had nothing less since my arrival in your kingdom.”

Thranduil hums softly, tilting his head as you reach to gather more strands of hair at his crown. “You would inform me if that were not the case,” he says - not quite an order, but close enough.

Your lips curl entirely of their own accord this time. “Of course, my Lord,” you murmur, wondering if Thranduil can hear the smile in your voice. Knowing without doubt that he can. “You shall be the first to know.” 


	9. prince nuada/reader, "rumor has it, i make you nervous."

You watch Nuada’s shoulders flex as he wields his spear, his alabaster skin damp with sweat and rainwater dripping down from the ceiling above. Each movement is precise, deadly. He fights an unseen enemy, the point of his spear slicing through the air and tearing through the silence. 

_Who are you fighting_? you think, your heart heavy as he continues to twist and turn, the steps reminiscent of a dance. A dance of blood and bone and death. You shiver on your perch, wrapping your arms around your stomach.

You may not know who he’s fighting, but you know what he’s fighting  _for_. Justice. Revenge. They’re one and the same for him. You’re certain of that much.

The time is close. You’re certain of that, too. His plan to unleash the Golden Army. To bring glory and honor back to his people.

To raze humanity from the earth.   

You wonder, sometimes, if he ever looks at you and feels disgust. For your human blood, for your human heart. For ever allowing himself to share such intimacy with a creature whose race he despises so deeply. 

_Not you_ , he says, after one of his tirades against humanity. His voice will grow hoarse as he reigns in his anger, his bloodlust. His touch upon you will be gentle, restrained, though you will still feel the tension thrumming through his veins.  _Not you_.

Your time is running short. An invisible clock counts down the days, the hours, the minutes remaining of your time together. You feel it in the depths of your heart, a heavy, bitter weight that sits within your chest and grows heavier by the day. You  _feel_  it coming - the end. It’s like another presence in the room, a shadow drawing ever nearer in the corner of your eye, and no matter how fiercely you try and ignore it, no matter how desperately you grasp for Nuada’s hands and heart, there’s nothing you can do to stop its approach. 

With a huff of exertion Nuada thrusts his spear into the ground, the concrete spidering beneath the weight of the blade. Pale, damp hair shadows his face, hides his expression from your eyes, and your breath sticks in your throat.   
Until he turns his head, golden eyes finding yours in the gloom, and you can breathe again. There is no hatred, no fury in that gaze. Not yet.

He releases the shaft of his spear, leaving it embedded in the concrete, and approaches you with a calm, steady gait. You marvel, as you always do, at how effortlessly he commands your attention, the whole of you arrested by his dark eyes and pale skin and the mantle of royalty that clings to his shoulders despite his exile. Your fallen Prince, soon to lead an army of fearsome, golden beasts. Soon to rend humanity from the earth and soak the ground in its blood. 

Soon, but not now. Now his skin is cool and slick beneath your hands. Now your fingers can curl around his shoulders, drift over the chords of his neck, and push the damp strands of his hair behind his pointed ears. Now you can bask in the patient warmth of his dark eyes.

Now, but not forever. You shiver, and his hands curl around your hips. 

“Are you well?” he asks, the heat of his touch sinking through your clothes, driving the chill from your bones. 

“I’m alright,” you murmur, settling your head against his shoulder. You breathe in his scent, closing your eyes against the gloom of the Underground. How long can you stay this way, you wonder? Another month? A week? A day?

“I make you nervous,” he says, his hands curving around your back. It isn’t a question, but you shake your head anyway.

“No,” you answer.  _Not you_ , you don’t say.  _Your ambition. Your desire. The darkness behind your eyes when you think I can’t see_.

You say none of these things. You breathe, and you hold fast to Nuada, and you wait for the inevitable. 


	10. thranduil/reader, "get this armor off of your king, and you shall be rewarded."

The scent of earth and blood clings to Thranduil’s skin. Your fingers tremble as you remove each piece of gleaming armor, his watchful gaze following your every movement. The tent is silent save the rasp of your breathing and the shift of metal and cloth as you work; Thranduil had dismissed his guards and barred entry to his temporary quarters until the morrow, leaving you alone with the King.

A crook of his finger had drawn you to him like a moth to flame, your heart heavy with relief as you’d taken in the pale, unmarred planes of his face. The blood splattered across his armor had been dark and viscous; not the blood of an elf, not  _his_. The battle had been won, and though you had yet to see the aftermath, you knew your King was unharmed, victorious, and that had been enough.

Or so you had believed, until he had given his command. His slender fingers had curled around your chin, lifting your head so that your gazes locked. “Get this armor off of your King,” he had ordered, his voice rough from a battle long-fought, “and you shall be rewarded.”

You had set about your task with nerveless fingers, the scent of blood and metal thick in the air, clouding your senses. Each newly bared swath of skin had simultaneously lightened your heart and sped its pulse. No blade or axe or claw had touched your King,  _could_  touch your King, and yet  _you_  could.      

You are no warrior; you are no  _elf_ , and yet the King of the Woodland Realm stands tall and pliant beneath your hands, watches you with sharp, expectant eyes as you rid him of his armor. 

Your breath hitches as you remove the last piece, your palms faltering at the lack of Thranduil’s warmth before you clasp them before you. “Is there anything else you require, my Lord?” you ask, swallowing against a surge of longing as you watch his pale, powerful shoulders disappear beneath a robe of deep azure. He knots it loosely at the waist, and your eyes are drawn at once to the shadows in the dip of his collarbone and the long line of his throat. 

“I promised you a reward, did I not?” he murmurs, dipping his head and regarding you through a fall of silver lashes. “Tell me, what boon would you ask of me?”

“I… I require no boon,” you stammer, even as you are unable to dispel the desires that fill your head. Surely the hungry nature of your thoughts must show on your face, for why else would your King wear such a knowing expression upon his handsome face, a mixture of amusement and expectancy that makes your skin warm. 

“Are you certain?” he asks, slowly closing the distance between you. “There is no token you desire?”

Your eyes flicker to the curve of his mouth before darting away, but you have been caught. Thranduil’s soft laughter tells you as much, as do the slender fingers curving around your cheeks and drawing you near. Your eyes slip closed at the touch of his lips against yours, the contact soft and feather-light. Meant to linger, to leave you aching for more, as it always has. You reach for his forearms, your pulse thrumming at the gentle pressure of his mouth against yours and the brush of his silken hair against your cheeks.

He draws away after a moment, his mouth tilting into a smirk as he peers into your clouded gaze. “Well?” he asks. “Are you satisfied with such a prize?”   
You swallow, cheeks heating beneath his touch, and breathe, “Perhaps… another?“  

The curl of your King’s lips and the tug of his hands pulling you to him once more are all the answer you require. 


	11. prince nuada/reader, angry kisses

The wall is cold against your back, damp seeping into your shirt and chilling your skin. You barely feel it, the cold overwhelmed by the heat of the hands wrapped around your hips and the mouth devouring yours. Your soft gasps and whimpers mingle with the harsh breaths of your lover, your lungs burn, your skin aches from the strength of his grip. There's nothing gentle about this embrace.

And yet you crave it, you're desperate for it. Your grip is just as rough, your hunger just as fierce. Your fingers grip fistfuls of pale hair and pull in sync with the clench of fingers against your hip - pain for pain. Meeting Nuada's anger with your own.

Because he _is_ angry. His rage is a palpable thing, ferocious and deep. He carries it around like a shield, wears it like armor, wields it like a weapon. It's his keenest blade, sharper than any sword or spear, and you're cut to ribbons beneath its bite.

He kisses you like he hates you. Maybe he does. You know he hates what you are, hates your humanity. All of his machinations, his ambitions, his plans - they all revolve around his dream of wiping your kind from the earth, bringing you all to heel. Why wouldn't he hate you?

And yet he's still here, _you're_ still here, tangled together so tightly it's impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins. He has yet to send you away, to refuse you. 

Maybe he hates that most of all. 

" _Nuada_ ," you gasp, your voice hoarse, limbs trembling. You can only handle the tide of his anger for so long. 

The bite of his nails through your clothing softens to a dull ache at the sound of your plea. His mouth is no less demanding, his kiss no less fierce, but you can breathe again, you can _think_ again, though it's a struggle as Nuada's teeth sink into your bottom lip, his hands curving around your cheeks. 

And _this_ \- this is what _you_ hate, these moments when the anger bleeds from him, cracks in his armor giving you a glimpse of what he might have been, could have been, had centuries of pain and bloodshed not stripped the tenderness from his bones.


	12. thranduil/reader, heated kisses

You’re there to greet your King upon his return. Your heart lifts at the sight of him, resplendent in his armor, unmarred,  _alive_. You had not known what to expect when he led his army to the Mountain, whether the dwarves would part with the treasure Thranduil sought or deny him and wage war. The reality, you had learned, had been far worse.

You know not how many lives were lost in the battle against the orc hoards, but grief sits heavy on your King’s shoulders, shadows his footsteps, and you ache for him. For the blood of his kin shed in battle, for those lost to the tide of war.

He is silent as he retires to his chambers with you by his side. You had stood resolutely by as he saw to those wounded and made arrangements for the slain, determined to keep him in your sights. A reassurance for yourself that even though all was not well, at least your King had made it home.

He begins to remove his armor with nary a word, his eyes distant, clouded. With what, you do not know. Memories, perhaps, those that are fresh and those that are remembered from horrors past.

You call his name, gratified by the spark of recognition in his eyes as he inclines his head toward you, and replace his fingers with your own, removing each piece of armor with deft hands and a careful touch.

He watches as you work, no longer distant but no less unburdened. You hesitate to tax him further, but you had noticed the absence of his son among the ranks of returning elves and fear sits within your belly like a bag of stones.

“My Lord.” Your voice is soft, wavering. “Legolas. Has he - ?”

“He lives.” Thranduil’s voice is just as soft, heavy with a fatigue you have never heard from your King. “He will return in his own time.” It is all he will say on the matter, but you are satisfied for the moment, thankful that at least your fears in this case were unfounded.

“Come,” you say, after you have removed the last garment and your King stands bare before you. He offers no resistance, merely allows you to lead him to his private bathing chambers, sinking unprompted into the water you had prepared. Steam rises from the surface, and you coat your hands in the scented oil he favors as you settle by the lip of the pool, reaching for his hair without a word.

“You fear for me,” he murmurs, after a few moments have passed in silence.

“I worry for you,” you correct, massaging the oil into soft silver locks until they gleam. It is easier to confess without the weight of his eyes on you. “For what you endured. For those you lost. For - ” You falter. It is a selfish thought, perhaps, but it is no less true than the others. “For what might have befallen you. I… I feared that you would not return.” That fear had twisted within your chest like a serpent, its fangs piercing your heart with each day that passed without a word from your King. “I wished to be there. To help. To  _fight_  - ”

Your voice breaks off in a gasp as you’re pulled forward, Thranduil’s hands cupped around your jaw, water splashing up over your legs. His mouth is hard against yours, hungry, and a whine builds in your throat as you’re swept away, overwhelmed by the ferocity of his kiss. You reach for his shoulders, the long line of his throat, his skin warm and damp beneath your fingers. Alive. Whole.

You struggle to draw in breath as he pulls away, though he doesn’t go far. His brow touches yours, eyes dark and fierce. Haunted.  

“You were here,” he rasps, his breath fanning over your lips. “That was enough.”


	13. smaug/reader, "i think you deserve a little something."

Amber eyes drink in the bounty in your arms, a heavy sack bulging with golden trinkets and silver pieces gathered by the people of Laketown. You had taken the offering from the Master himself, his face pinched and grip tight until you had reminded him in soft tones that your Lord was waiting, and he was not a patient beast.

The Master's face had drained of all color, his fingers trembling as he pushed the sack into your arms. You took no joy in his fear, nor in the fear of those who had gathered to watch the exchange, but you could not afford to linger, not when you were expected back by nightfall.

Your journey to the mountain had been hindered by your heavy burden, yet you had managed to slip within the secret entranceway your Lord had carved open for you just as night was falling over the valley. He had been waiting, his serpentine body stretched across his vast treasure, and his lips had curled in mute satisfaction as you appeared.

"Come closer," Smaug rumbles, the deep rasp of his voice echoing across the great cavern. His nostrils flare as he scents the air, breathing in the fresh traces of gold and silver encased in your arms. 

You pick your way carefully over his hoard, gold coins and jewel-encrusted treasures tinkling together like chimes beneath your feet. Smaug watches you approach with lidded-eyes, wisps of smoke rising sluggishly from his nostrils. You find yourself thinking he looks very much like a large, contented housecat, waiting patiently for a mouse to tread close enough to snatch up in his powerful jaws.

And here you are, willingly placing yourself in striking distance of his maw. Drawing closer, even, until you stand at his shoulder, your neck craned back so that you can look upon his face.

"My Lord," you intone, the ever-present waver in your voice bringing a curl to his lips. The scent of fire and woodsmoke, musk and iron fills your nose - the scent of Smaug. It lingers within every corner of the mountain, but it is overwhelming here, so close to its source.

Unprompted, you open the sack and allow the trinkets within to spill out onto the coins at your feet. Smaug's eyes flare a bright, hungry gold at the sight of your bounty, and you hold yourself very still as he lowers his head to inspect the newest additions to his hoard, his nose mere inches from your trembling legs.

Each coin and jewel and bauble will be memorized and cataloged within moments, assimilated into his great hoard. He will know each by sight and smell and taste, as intimately as a mother knows her brood, and will rage if any single piece be taken from his keep.

As his burning eyes catch upon you, you're reminded anew of another piece of his vast collection, a bauble that he will not part with, even as he sends it beyond the walls of his den. You.

"Such an obedient pet you are," he murmurs. You feel the heavy weight of his tail curling around your back, trapping you in the circle of his massive body. Overhead, his leathery wings flare and billow around you, blocking out your sight of the cavernous ceiling high above. "My fleet-footed treasure seeker, collector of coin, vassal of the great dragon Smaug."

You shiver at the low growl of his voice. It sweeps through you like thunder across the land, rending your foundations to nothing but rubble and rot. You feel untethered in the heat of his gaze, _small_ , and yet - 

"I think you deserve a little something," he rasps, his mighty claws raking through the mounds of treasure pillowed beneath his bulk. Again and again his searing gaze flicks between a particular gem or trinket and back to you, and your breath sticks in your throat as he begins to bestow each upon you. 

A jeweled necklace of jade and ruby draped around your throat, a cloak inlaid with brilliant gems around the collar wrapped about your shoulders, rings of silver and amythst and sapphire pressed into your hands, amber orbs trained upon your face until you slip them onto your fingers. And finally, a circlet of pale starlight, delicate and shining, placed upon your brow. 

You should feel ridiculous, ashamed, draped in the finery of those who have perished by dragon fire, those who have been cheated of their homes and their livelihoods and their _lives_ by the serpent curled before you, but you cannot deny the flush of satisfaction brought to your cheeks by the blatant admiration upon his face. 

A low growl echoes in the dragon's throat as he looks upon you, his eyes gleaming in the brilliant glow of his treasures, his coins and gems and stolen trinkets -

\- and _you_ , for you too are a part of his hoard, a piece in his vast collection, a treasure to be possessed and admired and guarded from all who would seek the riches of Smaug for themselves, and he will never part with you.


	14. stefano valentini/reader, hello kisses

You’re caked in dirt and muck and blood by the time you stagger through the doors of the Grand Theatre. Your legs shake, the strength having leeched from your bones long ago. Hours, days,  _weeks_. How long had you been running? How long had it been since you had escaped this place, fleeing into the ruin of Union as if the devil was on your tail? You can’t remember. 

But here you are, back again. Home again. Isn’t that what he’d called it? “ _Our sanctuary, cara_ ,” he’d said, arms spread wide to encompass the high ceiling, the plush interior, and the array of gruesome photos displayed along the walls. “ _Our gallery. Let us fill it with our creations, yes?_ ”

_Our_ , as though you had ever had any say in his twisted designs, as if it were desire and not self-preservation that had kept you close, kept you compliant all this time, even as your neighbors and friends began to disappear from the streets of Union, even as Stefano’s hands grew stained with their blood. Their screams kept you awake even now, haunting you in your dreams. Not that you’d had many opportunities to rest your head, not since your frantic dash from Stefano’s side.

He’ll kill you, of that you’re certain, if not for running away then for having the audacity to return. But you couldn’t stay out there. You couldn’t stumble your way through the ruin of your town, across a crumbling landscape littered with rotted corpses and creatures that howled and groaned and shambled toward you at every turn. Creatures that used to be  _human_ , their bodies twisted and deformed, bulging with pulsing flesh and stinking of blood and death and decay. 

You shiver, your breath coming fast and shallow. Death at Stefano’s hands was preferable to being ripped apart by one of those things. He would use you for something greater, at least, turn you into something beautiful. You nearly laugh at the thought, a lump forming in your throat as a well of panic and fear bubbles up inside of you, choking you.

You aren’t safe with him, you had never  _been_  safe with him, but after so long spent crawling through the wreckage of your town, the sour, fetid breath of corpses and the hungry wails of the dead chasing you through the dark, it isn’t fear that trembles through your body as you stand there in the Grand Theatre. It isn’t fear that brings tears to your eyes as familiar footsteps approach you from the darkness. 

It isn’t fear that steals your breath as Stefano steps into the light, his lone eye gleaming as he takes in your pitiful state: the blood and dirt smeared across your face and clothes, your bright, wild eyes, the tremors wracking your frame. 

And it isn’t fear that sends you running - not away, never again, but  _toward_  him, your fingers grasping, clawing at his lavish suit, tangling in the softness of his scarf, your mouth parting with a ragged gasp as he reaches for you, too, his grip like iron, tight around your cheek and throat. Inescapable.

“Did you miss me, cara?” he murmurs, the softness of his voice belied by the bruising strength of his grip, as though he expects you to run off again. As though he would let you.

You nod, helpless, desperate. Voiceless, nothing but a weak, exhausted whimper escaping your throat as he pulls you in.

No, it isn’t fear that floods your body as he captures your mouth, biting at the swell of your lower lip and soothing the sting with his tongue. It isn’t fear that pools in your belly at the low rumble of his laughter and the huff of his breath against your mouth. It isn’t fear that parts your lips, urges you to return his kiss with enough ferocity to steal what little breath you have left.  

It’s  _relief_. 


	15. thranduil/reader, "“you have no idea what i do for you.”

“Leave us.”

You hold yourself very still as the elven guards take their leave of you and the King. Tauriel is the last to depart, and the quick cut of her eyes towards you, laced with quiet sympathy, does little to calm the tide of  fear churning in your belly.

Silence floods the throne room; there is only you, the Elvenking perched high on his throne, and the sour taste of your shame coating the back of your throat.

“My Lord - ” you begin, unable to bear the stillness any longer.

“Silence.” You flinch, but not at the bite of his voice. His anger is a palpable thing, but none of it reflects in his tone. No, the Elvenking’s rage lurks within the depths of his eyes, wreathed in frost and sharp as any blade.  

“You have no idea what I do for you,” he says, his voice a low, dangerous rasp. You would do well not to interrupt again. “What I have  _done_  for you. Granting you sanctuary among my people, offering you protection. Only for you to disregard my orders, to seek out a danger you are not equipped to face - ”

Your fingers curl into fists at your sides at the reminder of your ineptitude. A nest of spiders had settled nearby - vile, ugly things, a scourge on the land. A party had been set to depart on the morrow to cut them down, but you had set off on your own in the night, armed with bow and blade, to prove yourself capable of dealing with the threat yourself. To prove yourself capable at all.

You were no elf, and though you had been training with Tauriel for many moons now, your skills in combat were… lacking. She hid it well, but your lack of progress was apparent, and your shame grew by the day as you witnessed the skill and finesse of your elven comrades. No unkind word had been said against you, no pitiable glances had been cast your way, but you could bear your own failings no longer. You would prove yourself worthy of your King’s regard. You would not - could not - become a burden.

And yet here you were, exactly that - a  _burden_ , a foolish human too reckless for your own good, dirtied and bloodied by your encounter with the spiders and shame-faced before your King. 

“If Tauriel had not been privy to your delusions of grandeur, if the Kingsguard had not sought you out - ” His voice fades, but his meaning is clear. You would be dead if the Kingsguard had not followed you, drained of life by those vile creatures, and all for the sake of your damned pride.

Pride which has led you here, shivering before the cold, hard gaze of your King. 

“By all rights I should banish you from these halls,” he says.

Your body goes rigid, your reaction to the Elvenking’s words immediate: an ache lances through your chest as if you’ve just been struck, and your eyes ache with the sting of tears. You struggle to keep them at bay, refusing to show him how deeply his words have cut you, yet your vision blurs despite your efforts.

It matters not. The waver of your voice reveals your turmoil well enough. “If my King commands it,” you choke out, the sharp angles of Thranduil’s face and his piercing gaze blurring before your eyes, as though you were looking upon him through fogged glass. Should you blink your tears will fall, and so you force yourself to hold your stare. Your eyes burn, a painful ache building in your skull, and still you wait - to be cast out, to be forced from his sight and from the realm. 

There is a moment of silence. You stand still as stone, your sorrow threatening to drown you as you await Thranduil’s decision, before a soft breath from your King shatters the quiet. He rises from his throne, as regal and lovely as always, and you brace yourself as he approaches you.

“Come,” he says, his tone brooking no argument. His robes brush against your legs as he passes you by, and you swallow as you turn to follow him, blinking rapidly to clear the haze from your vision.

You don’t know what you expect - to be deposited into the waiting hands of the guards, perhaps, or led into the dungeons to await exile. Instead you are guided through passageways as familiar to you as the back of your hand, and you hover indecisively on the threshold of your Lord’s chambers, uncertain why he has led you here.

“Sit,” he commands, and you sink into a chair without protest, wincing as pain blossoms through your leg. Your knee is a bloody mess of ripped clothing and torn skin, courtesy of a spider dragging you across the forest floor. You had been able to ignore it through your trek home and during the King’s interrogation, but now the pain flares anew, the scent of blood and earth and the sour stench of spider flesh making your head swim.

You watch in mingled shock and confusion as Thranduil sinks to his knees before you, a basin of water and cloth bandages on the floor at his side. Your lips move soundlessly as pale fingers reach for your wounded knee, stripping the remnants of your torn leggings from the bloody skin with quick, methodical movements. 

“Were you seeking death?” His voice is soft, lacking inflection, but the skin around his striking eyes has grown tight, and your breath catches. He is angry with you, and rightly so, but there is more to it than that.

You waver for a long moment, merely watching as he cleans and binds your wound. Your heart aches with each brush of his skin against yours, guilt and shame turning your stomach sour. He has yet to look upon you since he began his task, focusing solely on your torn, bloodied skin, and it is not anger that has put such a pensive, distant look upon his handsome face. 

It’s  _fear_ , or as close to it as you feel you shall ever see from your King.    

“I wished to prove myself,” you whisper, your shoulders bowing with the weight of your shame. Your foolishness. The ache of tears pushes anew at the back of your eyes, and this time you have not the strength to push them back. “To prove to myself, to you, that I am worthy of all you have given me.” A home, a place of belonging, a place by his side, and so much more. 

His hands go still, fingers curled around your wrapped knee. His eyes meet yours, and even the haze of your vision is not enough to lessen their impact.  

“I will  _not_  be a burden,” you grit, your cheeks hot and wet with tears. You close your eyes, frustrated by your weakness, and reach to scrub the offending wetness from your skin.

Slender fingers stall your progress, however, curling around your own and coaxing your eyes to fix upon your King once more.

“There is only one among us who would call you such,” he says, giving you a pointed look, “and I do not trust their judgement in this matter.”

Your lips twitch despite yourself, even as your tears continue to fall. “Surely you must see it,” you protest. “My failure in combat, my lack of skill. I - I have tried, time and again, to do as my mentors do, to move as they do, to  _be_  as they are, but I - “  

"You are no elf,” Thranduil finishes, and your stomach drops. It is the truth finally laid bare, and you quell beneath its might.

But not for long.  

“You do not need to be.” His fingers brush across your cheek, thumbing the wetness from your skin, and you slump against his hold with a soft, ragged breath.

“Hear my words,” he continues, “and know them to be true. You are not here by merit of something you  _lack_ , nor in the hopes that you may be changed into something you are not. You are here because you wish it to be so. Because your King wishes it to be so.” He presses his brow to yours, his eyes fixed upon your own, and you are lost. “If you cannot trust in yourself, meleth nin, can you trust in me?”

It is as though his words have stolen your own - you cannot speak, the swell of emotion within your throat allowing nothing but a soft, wondrous breath to pass your lips. Judging by the satisfied gleam of his brilliant eyes, it is all the answer he needs. 


	16. smaug/reader, possessive!smaug

He drapes you in gold. Strands of pearls, rings of garnet and jade and amethyst, a circlet of silver inlaid with sparkling gems. More wealth than you have ever seen, let alone touched. Your reflection in the lake shocks you, leaves you still and breathless. The price of these pieces alone would see you well fed and comfortable for the rest of your life, had you the wit to sell them. 

But you won’t. It would be folly of the highest order to part with a dragon’s treasure - he would hunt you down and kill you for such a slight. Besides, none of the merchants in Lake Town would dare to take them from you. 

They know who you belong to. As do you.

Even so, you continue to play this game. The steps are the same, never changing. You rage at the great beast until your voice runs hoarse -  _You cannot hold me here, O Smaug the Terrible! I would leave this place, and be free of you_  - and you can barely stand for the trembling of your legs. The dragon peers down at you, his amber eyes darkening with each of your impassioned cries, until your words run short and he makes his challenge.

_Leave, if you wish. No chains bind you. I see no shackles upon you. Go, pet, and with my blessing_.

His  _blessing_  - the jewels he drapes upon you, each bestowed with a careful, reverent touch you had not known such a beast was capable of. Such care for his trinkets, his treasure. For you. For what are you, if not another possession? Another piece of Smaug’s great hoard?

And so you leave. Sometimes you make it as far as the outskirts of Lake Town. Sometimes you barely make it a mile from the mountain. Sometimes the people of Lake Town see you coming and wail in fright.  _A specter!_  they scream.  _A specter from the mountain!_

Perhaps that is all you are - a ghost, a wraith, shining with the stolen wealth of those long dead and reeking of  _dragon._

You return, each time, to the mountain and to the King that wallows in his gold within it. And each time, despite the anger and the fear that had sent you running from his side, you cannot deny the relief that floods you when your feet sink within mounds of gold, when the chime of his treasures scattering at your feet sets those golden eyes upon you once more. This time is no different.

“Did you enjoy your freedom, pet?” he rasps, his voice a molten hiss. You tremble as it works its way through you, your fingers shaking as you reach for the jewels at your throat.

“Keep them.” He lowers his great head to you, golden eyes flaring with the same possessive gleam you have seen him bestow upon his hoard. Fear stills your hands, leaving the gems untouched, though there is warmth, too. Satisfaction. Despite yourself, you revel in that fierce, selfish gaze.

And as you press your hand to his face, his hard, rough scales scratching at your palm, you know that the same selfish, jealous love reflects in your own eyes, that it will lead you back to him time and time again, and that there is little you can do to stop its course. 


End file.
